“Never.” She sucks on an oyster. The sight is so filthy I have to close my fist around the tablecloth for restraint. “You eat like this every day?”
“Not every day, no. But Dimitri and I used to come here every week.”
“Dimitri?”
“My brother.” The next bite turns to ashes on my tongue. “He’s the one who introduced me to the place. Said they made the best seafood in town.”
Sima’s face turns warm. “Maybe he can join us, then? One day?”
Mine turns grim. “He’s been in a coma for a week. Doctors doubt he’ll ever wake up.”
I watch Sima’s mouth turn to stone. Her smile cracks and falls. “I’m… I’m so sorry,” she stammers, sounding sincere. “I for—I mean, I didn’t know.”
“No reason you should.”Except there is. Because your family did it.“It happened in the same accident that killed my father. I suppose Dimitri had better luck. Or worse, depending on what you think of comas.”
Sima looks genuinely upset. For some reason, it lands like a sucker punch.
But that’s followed by anger. How can I believe her? Her own father gave the order. For all I know, her own psycho brother pulled the trigger.
The look on her face doesn’t reek of lies, though. And it doesn’t go away, no matter how hard I stare.
“His coma… it’s irreversible, then?” she whispers.
“Not on paper.” I set down my fork, my appetite gone. “But the longer he’s in it, the slimmer his chances are.”
“I’m sorry.” Sima reaches across the table. Her delicate fingers brush mine. “It sounds like you really care for him.”
I don’t know why I answer honestly. “I do. We were really close growing up.”
“Must be weird not having him around.”
“It is.” I clear my throat, force the lump back down. “He was always there for me.”
“You miss him?”
“Yeah.” I reach for the wine just to have an excuse to break contact with her. “Guess I do.”
“I can’t imagine what it would be like. To lose two big parts of your world in a single day like that.”
“It was different with my father.” I have no idea why I’m indulging her curiosity. But the words seem to tumble out of me, as if they’d been waiting to be let out all along. “He was a good leader, but not much of a parent. Couldn’t step out of hispakhanshoes long enough to be one.”
“Tough love?”
“‘Tough’ something.”
“I get what you mean.” She swirls her wine, gaze distant. “When I was growing up, my dad wasn’t big on hugs, either.”
That’s when I see it—an opportunity. “What was he like?”
She drops her fork. “Huh?”
“Your father. You said he’s not the affectionate type.” I lean forward slightly, seizing back the power in the conversation. “What’s he like, then?”
For a handful of seconds, Sima just babbles, mouth opening and closing around random sounds. “My dad, he…” She swallows a long sip of wine. When she speaks again, her voice is suddenly much smoother. “He passed away in a car accident when I was twelve. My mom, too.”
She’s lying.Even if I didn’t already know it for certain, I’d be able to tell right away. Her story sounds practiced, like she’s spent the past decade telling it to herself in front of a mirror. Her facial expressions are all wrong, too. There’s no sign of sorrow, no sign of grief.
It shouldn’t piss me off, but it does.
